


Sour Grapes

by ThereminVox



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 06:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15768273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereminVox/pseuds/ThereminVox
Summary: I don’t know what this is but John drinks rotgut and his gut rots.





	Sour Grapes

 

 

 

 

 

After a long day of flaying flesh, John unwinds with a glass of his self-endorsed sponsorship of Pinot Gris, labeled ‘Just Say Yes’. However, the wine has become stale. He’s left it opened upon the dining table near his fax machine. Yet, the misplaced cork alarms his already groggy awareness that leaving a perfectly aged bottle unattended was not his doing.

 

The cork oscillates to and fro, perching precariously near the table’s edge and a quick sweep of denomination brushes at his temple. Even so, his glazed eyes urge the hands to take the imitation blood of Jesus and down half the bottle with a wary, judging look of stuffed Moose before him.

 

Spots swim in his vision after five minutes of stare showdown between the two. Vaguely, he could recognize three Faith hallucinations frolicking near the Moose with red glow intensifying against the eyes. Another five minutes had passed as he moves to discard his vest, having half a mind to drape neatly over one of the chairs.

 

Drunken, and on the verge of painting the floorboards like an emetic, roistering frat boy, he saunters with unsteady steps to the stuffed Cougar behind him, uttering both a slurring declaration of fighting words yet also his final words.

 

“ _Peaches?! That’s_ what they call you? I- *hiccup* I’ve had pussy worshipped with better fruits th- *hiccup* than _that *_ cue fusty burp _*.”_

 

Bile was rising in his chuckle-ridden throat and the distinct sound of a bobcat call in the distance didn’t register in time until the sudden pawing hands of Miss Mable at his back told him to call it a night.

 

“That’s a _taxidermied_ animal, you damn ingrate! I don’t care how much of a _sight_ for sore eyes you are, nobody, and I mean _nobody,_ is allowed to sass talk my Peaches and live to see cock’s crow.”

 

The smack upside John’s head pushes his cotton tongue a heave away from retching.

 

“If you want to make sure _another_ cock remains in sight, I suggest you take your seedy behind to bed”, she asserts with an accusing finger pointed in his addled face.

 

John begrudgingly begins to ascend the stairs like a sulking child, paying no mind to realize it was all a Bacchic dream.

 

“Go on”, Mable lilts.

 

He makes it a few steps through the door leading to the balcony, swaying towards two veranda chairs, before collapsing to a limb-strewn heap. Found the next morning, vomit reeking from Rook’s bending placement to smell, in irenic sleep.

 

They pat his cheek and relish the husky grunt with a small laugh.

 

 

“Looks like you had one too many sour grapes, Mr. Baptist.”

 


End file.
